


The Fake AH Crew but it's the 1920s

by QuestionableGentleman



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Fake AH Crew, Immortal Fake AH Crew (Referenced), Multi, This Is So Incredibly Self Indulgent, so much 20s slang, there will be more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-02 21:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11517714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuestionableGentleman/pseuds/QuestionableGentleman
Summary: The title says it all. This is so incredibly self indulgent. I wanted to see how much 20s slang I could shove into a piece.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The second person perspective is only for the first chapter. As sort of an introduction. After the first chapter, things will continue in your regularly scheduled third person perspective as usual.

The cabbie twists around in his seat as he hears your request. “Huh? Y’want me to show you around the city? Get ya acquainted with things? Alright. Alright, I can do that.” 

You thank him, turning to look out the taxi window. Los Santos is much bigger than the little town you came from, the high rise buildings polished to the nines and the people on the street dripping Ritz. Girls in their kneeduster skirts and men in their best duds chatting as they walk, entering and exiting glamorous establishments. 

“So what’s a fella like you doin here?” the cabbie asks after a few minutes of driving, curiosity in his voice. 

You tell him about your new job with the newspaper. 

“Ahh! A writer, then. Well, Los Santos is the place for you, then. She’s got lots of stories to tell,” he chuckles as he turns a corner onto a slightly less highbrow street. 

You ask him what he means, and if he can point you in the direction of any of those stories. 

“I can definitely show you a few things for a buck or so,” he says, glancing at you in his rearview mirror and arching his eyebrows. 

You smile and tell him you’ll give him a whole ten dollars if he gets you intimate with the city and it’s people. He looks startled, but nods eagerly. He pulls down another street. 

“For a ten, you’ll get the whole grand tour, and I’ll tell you secrets about everyone ‘n their old man. Where do you want to get started?” 

You glance around a moment, before asking him where to find a speakeasy in this city. The cabbie’s face splits into a grin around his cigar, and he nods, taking a turn down an alley, and out onto a more dingy street. 

“There are lotsa juice joints in Los Santos, but the one you’ll wanna get real acquainted with is called the Cockbite. Don’t ask why it’s called that, though, cuz I have no idea. But that’s where the Crew hangs out. They’ve got all the prettiest dolls and all the hard-boiled fellas.” 

The word ‘crew’ seems emphatic, and you ask him why. 

“Oh? You haven’t heard ‘bout em? They’re the Fake AH Crew. They’ve gotta be the toughest gang this side of the Atlantic. Have the most scratch anyway. Got the whole city wrapped around their fingers. If you’re gonna be writin’ the news, you’ll have to get pretty well acquainted with ‘em. I’ll give you a nice introduction.” 

You swallow a little heavily, not expecting this on your first day out. You’d heard weird stories out of Los Santos, but never paid much attention, figuring they were just feeding you a line. The cab pulls up to an older building, well kept, with no marking except for a sign with a simple logo on it. A green circle surrounding a duck. Lights are shining behind heavy curtains inside, and muffled music is playing. Two men, both well built, stand outside the door, blowing out smoke rings. Others flow in and out, all dressed up and most obviously ossified. 

The cabbie parks around the side of the building. Other cars are parked there as well, mostly swanky new models with shiny paint. You take note of them, and follow the cabbie into the building. He nods at one of the doormen, who tips his cap slightly. You wonder how well your cabbie knows this place. 

The inside of the building is smoky, with hanging electric lights to show off the classy bar, cushy seating, and the large dance floor. You and the cabbie slide into a small central table so you can get a better look around. Several people are hoofing it on the floor, some couples and some by themselves. On the small stage at the back, accompanied by a little band, a bottle blonde flapper in a red dress is singing into a microphone, voice low and husky. 

Your cabbie smiles a little at you. “Now, none of what you hear from me tonight is comin’ from me, y’know?” 

You nod a little, pulling out a little pad of paper and a pen to jot down some notes. He directs your vision to one of the large, round booths near the dance floor with a jerk of his head.

“Y’see charlie there with the two birds on his arms?” 

You nod, eyes fixed on the mustachioed man. He’s unmissable in his swanky black silk 

suit and green tie. He’s dark haired, and dark eyed, tattoos peeking out on one of his hands as he brushes it through one woman’s hair. He looks overall like he’s rolling in dough, drinking the most expensive hooch money can buy

“That’s Kingpin Ramsey,” continues the cabbie. “He’s the big cheese. The head egg. Most powerful man in Los Santos. And I am saying that with the mayor himself in mind. That’s why he can hang out here in public without worryin’ about the heat. He’s got half of ‘em in his pocket anyway if the rumors are to be believed. He’s supposedly former fuzz himself. He started up the Crew, him and his two molls.” 

You look back at Ramsey and the women he’s with. One is a blonde, hair cut short and slicked against her head. She’s wearing a man’s suit, though cut to her body, a deep green. She looks sharp, like quite the snake charmer, while the other woman looks more soft. She’s a redhead, all dolled up in a teal dress and headband with a feather. 

“The blonde gal is supposedly the Kingpin’s wife by law. They call her ‘The Saw’ but don’t ask me why. Rumor has it she’s even more of a hardass than her husband. The other woman’s “The Pilot” Pattillo. She may look like a big softie, but don’t believe it. If y’ever see a little green plane zippin’ over the city, that’ll be her. Rumor has it she’s the Kingpin’s other wife. But you didn’t hear that from me.” 

You’re surprised, and you’re sure it shows, but you nod a little, making a note of that. The cabbie stops his gut spilling for a minute to go get a drink from the bar, and you take the moment to look around again. Your eyes catch several figures in the crowd, and you hope they’ll be brought up in your tour guide’s tale telling. A fella in a hideous orange and purple suit and a pair of dark glasses. A man in a blue shirt with so much gold on him he looks like he might be turning to gold himself. 

The cabbie pulls your attention back to him as he pushes a glass of dark beer over to you. You thank him and sip it slowly, waiting with bated breath for him to finish his slug and continue his chin music. You don’t have to wait long. 

“Now, the Ramseys and Patillo are the big three. But there are five others in the main Crew. I’ll direct your peepers over to the man by the bar. Hard to miss. All draped in mazuma.” 

You look back towards the tan young man at the bar. His hair is a bit of a mess, and he’s a little scruffy, but his watch, his rings, his tie-pin, his cufflinks, and even the buttons on his shirt are made of gold. 

“That’s the Golden Boy. He’s a Brit. No one’s quite sure how he got here, or when. Some say he’s like the Kingpin’s adopted son. Others say Ramsey’s his sugar daddy.” The cabbie notices your quizzical look. “Oh, that’s not the queerest thing you’ll hear about the Crew. Just you wait. Anyhow, Golden Boy’s a bit of a wild card. Loose with his gun, and even looser with money. Spends most of his time with Dynamite Jones.” 

You inquire about that name. 

“The guy in the brown suit next to Golden Boy.”

You look back at the bar. Leaned up against the wood is a redheaded fella in a pretty average looking brown suit. There’s a bruise around one of his eyes. He’s chatting with Golden Boy, looking like he’s working himself into a lather, voice raising over the noise of the crowd. 

“Dynamite Jones. He’s one of Ramsey’s main men for a caper, and for enforcer work. The name pretty much says it all. He can turn a building into a campfire in twenty seconds flat, supposedly. Supposedly has a helluva temper on him, too. I’d avoid gettin’ on his bad side.” 

You nod and make sure to make a note of that, underlining it twice. You take another drink of beer, and your cabbie does the same, before speaking. “Next is Deadshot. He’s the one in the purple jacket, smokin’ Mary Jane by the band.” 

You look over at the young man, half hidden by the hoofers on the floor. He looked more relaxed than anyone in the joint, lounged across a chair, his purple jacket rumpled and stilts splayed out in front of him. A cigarette lolled from his lips, heavy smoke surrounding him. You ask the cabbie what he’s all about. 

“Oh, he’s all about his gun. Supposedly, Deadshot can snipe the wing off a fly from across the greenland. According to most, he’s a bit of a dewdropper, sleepin’ around and bein’ a layabout most of the time. But when the Kingpin calls, then the bean shooter comes out, and all it takes is one bullet.” The cabbie makes a shooting motion with his hand. 

You swallow a little at the thought, but nod a little and write it down. You wonder exactly how deep in you’re getting right now, and if maybe you’re in over your head. Taking a deep breath, you inquire about the last two of the Crew. 

“Well, the first is Rimmy Tim. Yeah, I know, helluva name. Dunno where it came from, but no one knows his real name. He’s that fella over there with the real ugly purple and orange suit.” 

You look again at the short man at the card table, chatting animatedly with a few others as he counts out some poker chips. His loud suit doesn’t conceal the fact that he’s built like a baby grand, and his knuckles are bruised and scraped. 

“He’s one of Kingpin’s enforcers. Pretty much a jack of all trades, supposedly. Can drive any jalopy with wheels. Can shoot anything with bullets. Can take a man down with just his bare fists.” 

You finish your beer, nodding. You wonder what he’s saving for last as he finishes his drink as well, and sets the cup on the side of the table. 

“The last man in the main Crew is over there in the back corner. The big creepy fella.” 

You look over to where he motions. The man leaned up against the wall is quite the big six, tall and strapping, with slicked back black hair and a smear of black and red across his face. You’re not quite sure if you want to know exactly what he’s got on him. He looks a bit out of place in all the swanky suits and Ritzy dresses, wearing a simple shirt and suspenders with no tie or jacket. 

“That’s The Vagabond. Ain’t nobody knows his real name either. Ain’t nobody knows where he came from, or who he is. All anybody knows is he works the big choppers and nobody gets away alive. Rumor has it he can take ten bullets and keep on goin’ like it’s peanuts.”

You shudder a little, glancing back at The Vagabond, before looking back at the cabbie. You flip the page in your notebook, and ask him if he can tell you more. Are there others that you should watch out for? Any other chewing gum he’s willing to share?

“Well, since you’re being so generous with your dough, I have some more I can tell. Look over at the dance floor. Y’see the skinny Oliver Twist with his hair all pulled up?”

You lean a bit to look, easily picking out the man doing the charleston by himself. Lean and slick, he’s got dark hair pulled up in a bun, and he’s wearing all of a blue fitted suit but the jacket. You glance back at the cabbie and nod. 

“If you’re gonna be a reporter, he’s gonna be your biggest competition. Name’s Jon Risinger, and he rules the paper.”

You’re startled, looking back at the man on the floor. He doesn’t look intimidating in any way. You ask why he’s here, hanging out with all these shady characters. 

“Well, supposedly, and you didn’t hear this from me, he informs for the Crew. Has all his sources wrapped around those fingers and pulls all the strings. Even more speculatively, and this you really didn’t hear me spill this, but he’s The Vagabond’s sheba. Bends that way, if you get my drift.” 

You can’t help but glance back at The Vagabond in the corner of the room, and your attention is only pulled back by the cabbie speaking again. 

“The doll up on stage is “Ruby” Jones. She’s married to Dynamite. She’s quite a gal, apparently. Flapper by day, Moll by night. Reportedly knows how to use a tommy just as well as the rest of em.” 

You nod a little, glancing at the singer, trying to imagine the pleasant looking blonde with a gun. It’s a little difficult. What’s even more difficult is imagining her on Dynamite’s arm, now that Dynamite has Golden Boy draped over his shoulders at the bar. 

“Those two men in the booth by the door? They’re both bulls. Officers Luna and Shawcross. Ramsey has ‘em in his pocket.” 

Your eyes turn to them. Both men are in uniform, stiff coats and hats set to one side as they drink and talk. One is blond, the other brunette. It seems so strange seeing the fuzz in a gin mill like this, unless they’re breaking up the blow. 

“There’re more. Plenty more. Probably most of the people in here are connected in some way or another. They’re a queer crew, but they’ve got the scratch, the dope, and the gumption to make ‘em the strongest.” 

You reach into your pocket, pulling out your wallet and extracting a ten, sliding it across the table to your cabbie. You thank him quietly for all the information. He grins a little and nods, pocketing the money. 

“Anything else I can do for you?” 

You shake your head, getting up, and leaving the bar. You figure it’ll be good to walk off your beer. As you leave, out of the corner of your eye, you see the cabbie going over to Kingpin Ramsey, starting to chat. You wonder if you’re going to make it to your hotel. 


	2. Heist Planning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crew plans a Heist. The main pairing in this chapter is Michael/Gavin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place shortly after the first chapter, but isn't really related. Goodbye awful second person perspective.

Geoff waved away the rat spilling static in his ear. “I don’t think it’s worth worrying about. Go get some more dimbox fares before all the blottos head home for the night.” 

The informant scurried away, and Geoff slid out of his booth, going over to the bar and leaning over. The bartender came over quickly, ignoring the other two patrons calling for his attention. 

“Get all the non-essentials out of here, Trevor, and clear out all the dead soldiers. We’ve got Crew business to get to, and I don’t want any of these rummies getting in the way,” instructed Geoff. 

Trevor nodded, and Geoff slid back into his booth, leaning back and kicking his wingtip shoes up on the table. Trevor called out that the bar was closed for the night, and people grumbled and beefed, but quickly dried up and left. Most of the rest of the crew, save for Gavin and Michael, gathered around the table. Jeremy, Ray, and Trevor slid into the seats with Geoff, Jack, and Griffon. Lindsay draped herself over the back of the booth, and Ryan leaned on the edge, arm looped around Jon’s hips. 

“What’s the news, boss?” asked Jeremy, leaning in a little, orange gambler tipped back off his face. 

“A caper. Where’s Michael and Gavver?” asked Geoff, looking around the now-empty joint. 

“Yeah, they went out back to do some necking a few minutes ago,” said Ray, putting out his cigarette and flicking the butt away. 

“What? Somebody go roust them out! They need to be here for this,” huffed Geoff, waving a hand. “Lindsay, go get those dewdroppers down here.” 

Lindsay laughed and nodded, going to the back door and out into the hall, looking around for her husband and Gavin. Not seeing them there, she went up the spiral stairs, peeking into the cards room. Inside, Michael had Gavin perched up on one of the roulette tables, slipped up between his long stilts as he kissed the Golden Boy’s neck. Lindsay let herself watch for a moment, grinning, before finally stepping inside. 

“Hey fellas. Bank’s closed for now. Geoff needs us all downstairs for some planning,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. 

Michael looked over his shoulder at his wife, scowling. “Really? Right now?” 

“Yep. Apparently it’s a big caper. Needs all the Crew,” she said with a nod, “So finish up and come back down.” 

“Alright, alright. What a killjoy,” grumbled Michael, turning to press another rough kiss to the joint of Gavin’s jaw and neck. He grinned slightly as it drew a little noise out of the Brit. 

Michael pulled back and straightened up his shirt and tie, helping Gavin do the same as he slid off the table. Gavin’s cheeks were red and his hair was a mess, and he buttoned his shirt up properly again. 

“So, we’re gonna cash those checks later, yeah?” Gavin asked, following Michael and Lindsay back down the stairs. 

“Oh yeah, definitely.” 

Upon them arriving and sitting at the meeting table, Geoff nodded, leaning in on his elbows. “Thanks for joining us, assholes. We’ve got some big beeswax to get through. I’ve got a plan set out for a big caper.” 

Everyone leaned in a little, tension in the air mingled with excitement. It had been a while since they’d pulled a job, and everyone had been getting antsy. Popping rats and collecting debts never had the same whoopee. 

“Our Jonny Boy here gave me some nice information on a money transfer,” said Geoff, nodding to Jon. “Fed scratch being taken by train to Los Santos Central Bank. We’re gonna get that dough.”

“According to my contact, it’s gonna be a whole 100 grand,” said Jon with a little smile, leaning in against Ryan. “The train is coming down from the north, along the west rail. It’s going to be first thing Saturday morning.” 

“Yeah, so, Jackie and I have come up with a plan,” said Geoff, pulling a map out of his suit jacket and unfolding it on the table. “It’s gonna be dicey, since apparently the train is gonna have a copper escort, but I’m sure we can do it.” 

“Alright, what’s the plan, old boy?” asked Gavin, peeking over at the lines drawn on the map. 

“Well, first off, we’re gonna meet here first thing in the morning. Jackie’s gonna have her airplane up on the roof. Michael, you’re gonna be with her. You’re Air Team. You’ll leave the joint first, fly up north and find the train and follow it.” 

Michael nodded. “Nifty. Am I gonna be gunnin’ or are we just keeping the train in our sights?” 

“Bring your big choppers. You’ll need em, but we won’t engage the fuzz until it’s necessary,” said Jackie. 

“You’re also gonna want to bring a parachute just in case. Now, once the train gets into Los Santos, the caper really starts. Jeremy, get one of the older jalopys out and ready. We need something disposable. You and Gavin are gonna go downtown and start to cause a ruckus. Really shake things up. I don’t care how, but cause some mayhem and get the bulls all over it. Get their attention away from the dough transfer. You guys are Team Live Wire.” 

Jeremy grinned and nodded. “We can do some arson. Maybe pop a few people. We can definitely get the bulls on our ass pretty quick.” 

Gavin nodded eagerly in agreement, thinking of a myriad of different ways that him and Rimmy Tim could cause some serious carnage downtown. 

“While they’re doing that, Ryan and Ray, you two are going to be positioning yourselves in cars by the railway up near the edge of town. As soon as the train’s escort starts passing by, you two start shooting. Bump off as many coppers as you can, and then get on the train. The money’s gonna be in the fourth car. Go in and take out the guards and crack the safe. Bag up the heavy sugar, and then head out to the caboose,” explained Geoff. “You two are Team Torpedo.” 

Ryan nodded. “Alright. We can do that. What do we do once we get to the caboose?” 

“I’m getting there! While you fellas are all doing your jobs, I’m going to be getting a bus. Something that can hold all of us and the dough. Once Team Torpedo has taken out the fuzz escort, I’m gonna jump the bus up onto the tracks behind the train. When you have the scratch at the caboose, you’re going to toss it down into the car, and get down in with me. Air Team, you guys will lay down cover fire for us to escape if we need it. Team Live Wire, you guys are going to pull back and rendezvous with us under the Sixth Street Bridge.” 

“Sounds like a solid plan,” said Trevor. “Do you need the B Team to do anything for this one?” 

“If you can get getaway cars set up under the bridge, that’d be great. Other than that, I think this one is pretty straightforward. Everybody understand what they’re doing?” 

There was a chorus of yesses, and people split up to go their own ways. Geoff and Jackie and Griffon went upstairs to the penthouse. Trevor went to tidy up the bar. Jeremy and Ray split to head home, and Ryan nearly dragged Jon out over his shoulder. Lindsay looked over at Michael. 

“I’m going to take a dimbox home. You gonna stay the night with Gavvy?” 

“Yep. I’ll come home tomorrow sometime.” Michael kissed her cheek, before going to go pull Gavin away from the bar, where he was swapping some static with Trevor. 

Gavin squawked and flailed a little as Michael’s arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him back away from the bar and towards the back door. “Michael! You startled me!” 

“Sorry, Gavver. But I’m ready to cash those checks you promised me,” he took the Brit by the arm, pulling him up the stairs and into Gavin’s little apartment there. 

Gavin grinned, pulling Michael into a deep kiss as the door fell shut, looping his arms around his neck. Michael kissed back just as eagerly, shoving him back against the wall and pinning him there. 

“Mmm… Been waiting all evening for this, Gav. I’m gonna take you apart,” Michael growled into his lover’s ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. Have more self-indulgent slang-filled 1920s FAHC. The next chapter will be smut, I promise. 
> 
> I'm probably gonna update this thing every few days or so.

**Author's Note:**

> There's so much slang. So here's a dictionary: http://www.citrus.k12.fl.us/staffdev/Social%20Studies/PDF/Slang%20of%20the%201920s.pdf


End file.
